On some lane, unnamed,
There lies the door
That opens into a room
With a window, that
Looks out onto nothing
Just blackness
Where light dries up
And does not pitch
The only frame in has
Sunflower; dull, dying
Waiting as if for
Some sunlight
To brighten, to swing.
Some nights across
From the window
Wavering, doubtful images
Of a rainbow can be seen.
Colours indistinguishable
Maybe, a retinal burned image
That reminds of
How things maybe
Just maybe…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem